


Perspective

by sanerontheinside



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:34:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28273185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanerontheinside/pseuds/sanerontheinside
Summary: When Obi-Wan had been an Initiate, Master Jinn seemed to him a walking legend. He’d shielded heavily, then, on their first meeting, but Obi-Wan had had the sense of roots reaching deep, deep into the bedrock of the Force, like a towering tree able to withstand the sheerest winds.After Naboo, Qui-Gon looked frail and sharp-edged. His presence felt… thin. He’d nearly gone into the Force, after all. Obi-Wan distinctly remembered the feeling of his Master slipping away, of their bond stretching filament-thin as Qui-Gon was pulled away from him.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 9
Kudos: 90
Collections: QuiObi Secret Santa 2020





	Perspective

**Author's Note:**

  * For [treescape](https://archiveofourown.org/users/treescape/gifts).



> Treescape requested: Post-Naboo cozy evenings with a side of mutual pining.

When Obi-Wan had been an Initiate, Master Jinn seemed to him a walking legend. He’d shielded heavily, then, on their first meeting, but Obi-Wan had had the sense of roots reaching deep, deep into the bedrock of the Force, like a towering tree able to withstand the sheerest winds. 

After Naboo, Qui-Gon looked frail and sharp-edged. His presence felt… thin. He’d nearly gone into the Force, after all. Obi-Wan distinctly remembered the feeling of his Master slipping away, of their bond stretching filament-thin as Qui-Gon was pulled away from him. 

But one of the starkest changes, somehow, was that Qui-Gon was almost always cold, now. For as long as Obi-Wan had known his Master, Qui-Gon had run warm. Qui-Gon had gathered his Padawan up close on cold hyperspace flights, curled around him on cold nights. 

Now Qui-Gon seemed to curl into himself. 

Obi-Wan wanted—well, many things, really. He wanted to stay with Qui-Gon, but he was sure the Council would assign him a mission soon. He wanted to care for his Master, because he was sure Qui-Gon would hardly accept that care from anyone else. To hold on tight and never let him slip away again—but that was hardly a desire worthy of a Jedi. 

To give back just a little bit of the warmth that had sheltered Obi-Wan all these years—that, at least, was something Obi-Wan could do. And so, he made tea for his Master, and made sure there was always a blanket in his favoured corner of the old couch, and another within reach to lay over his feet when they were cold. If Obi-Wan nudged the thermostat just a little, both he and Qui-Gon agreed to pretend it was solely for Anakin’s sake. 

Then again, Obi-Wan had noticed that Qui-Gon seemed livelier, more energetic on the days when Anakin came. If Anakin visited them more often for the bump to the thermostat, Obi-Wan counted it as a victory. 

* * *

The mission assignment came amid one of the longest weeks since Qui-Gon had been released from the Halls of Healing. Obi-Wan had been waiting for Qui-Gon’s physical therapist to have mercy on his Master and let him go. Healer Alin had chosen that day to be punctual, alas, so Obi-Wan had had no time to school his features into neutrality. Even then, Obi-Wan would’ve had little chance of hiding his disappointment, but he would have liked to try. 

Qui-Gon waited until they’d returned to their quarters, and Obi-Wan had helped him out of the hoverchair and back onto the couch. His hands were cold, and Obi-Wan felt a sympathetic shiver crawl up his spine. 

“I suppose they’ve finally given you an assignment,” Qui-Gon said softly. 

Obi-Wan couldn’t hold back a quick grimace. “I don’t want to seem—”

“Mace warned me,” his Master interrupted him. “I knew it would be soon.” 

Obi-Wan sighed, and sat back on the small caff table behind him. To occupy his nervous fingers, he plucked the blanket from the middle of the couch and arranged it over Qui-Gon’s knees. He didn’t know how to meet Qui-Gon’s quiet gaze, or how to answer it. 

So he retreated into the familiar: “I’ll make sapir,” he murmured. 

He didn’t get far. What stopped him was Qui-Gon’s clasp on his wrist, cool fingers wrapping around the delicate bones. 

“Please, another drop and I’ll float away.” 

There was a wry lilt to Qui-Gon’s voice. Obi-Wan had to look up to make sure. 

And there it was: Qui-Gon’s crooked little smile, the kindness in his eyes. He was possibly more alert than he had been in days, cutting through the lethargy and the frustration to comfort his Padawan. 

Duty or not, Obi-Wan felt like he was abandoning him. He suddenly felt like he might cry. “But you’re cold,” he whispered. 

Qui-Gon’s smile dimmed, his expression turned thoughtful. “I am,” he uttered, as if just discovering this fact for himself. But then his gaze sharpened, turned almost playful. “Come,” he tugged Obi-Wan’s hand gently, “sit next to me.” 

Without thought, Obi-Wan let himself be tugged across and arranged the way Qui-Gon wanted him: tucked against his Master’s side, into his shoulder and under his chin. A long arm curled around Obi-Wan’s waist, and the blanket followed after it—Qui-Gon’s fine control of the Force had stabilised enough for that, it seemed. 

“Much better,” Qui-Gon said. 

Beneath Obi-Wan’s ear, his voice was a comforting rumble. Obi-Wan shifted around and burrowed one arm carefully behind his Master’s back. Qui-Gon made a soft noise, like surprise and relief rolled into one. 

He was so _thin,_ Obi-Wan thought, all angles and sharp edges. 

“The Healers will take good care of me,” Qui-Gon said quietly. 

“I know.”

“And Anakin will keep me company.”

“I know.”

Qui-Gon paused. “And you will come back to me?” 

The question was painfully tentative. Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face into Qui-Gon’s shoulder. “Of course.” _Always._

Maybe it was only his imagination, but it seemed that some weight in Qui-Gon’s Force presence lifted away. Qui-Gon tilted his head to rest his cheek against Obi-Wan’s hair. “Obi-Wan, my Padawan, my Knight,” he whispered. 

Long moments later, Qui-Gon’s breath slowed to the even rhythm of sleep. Obi-Wan didn’t move, let himself be lulled by the gentle pattern. 

* * *

Roon was a dreary world. Clay brick construction had crumbled into dust in places, looking like dried blood on the ancient painted tiles. It was a world trapped in the aftermath of a disaster, unable to shake itself out of shock-induced stupor for nearly a decade. 

Desperately, Roon’s Premier was trying to pull together anyone with enough energy and vision to _build_ something. Xe scraped and borrowed and begged, and finally the Senate had sent him a Jedi. 

One Jedi. A newly-made Knight. 

_Never underestimate the good you can do,_ Qui-Gon would have said. That alone kept Obi-Wan from darker thoughts. 

Supply chains, logistics: much of a Jedi’s life was about finding threads and weaving them together into something whole. It wasn’t a negotiation, but a series of them. A gossamer film balanced on crumbling infrastructure, liable to shred at the first hint of a breeze. 

Obi-Wan rubbed at the bridge of his nose, and thought of Qui-Gon. 

_What little we can offer them is already more than what they had,_ Qui-Gon had once said to his tired, heartsick Padawan. Perspective, Qui-Gon reminded him: _your focus determines your reality._

Once, in a huddle by a campfire, Obi-Wan had found himself next to a small girl who was toying with her broken doll, trying to fit the broken arm back into the smashed socket. Obi-Wan had caught her eye, and with a hopeful look the child had held out the pieces to him. 

So he’d done his best to fix it. He’d turned over the problem this way and that for nearly an hour before he finally figured it out. He’d cleaned out the broken pieces, whittled a new arm out of wood with his Master’s small carving knife; popped the limb back into the slightly misshapen, dented joint. 

It was no great example of handicraft. In the end, it was only still a ceramic doll with one wooden arm. The balance was off. There was quite a bit less shoulder than there should have been—though quite a bit more than Obi-Wan might have expected, all things considered. 

He’d never seen a youngling so happy amid so much soul-grinding bleakness. 

_Focus, you see,_ Qui-Gon had nudged him. 

Perhaps that was why his Master always looked to the younglings, Obi-Wan reflected. 

* * *

At night, Obi-Wan dreamed of a tall Jedi with a green blade in his hands and Force presence like a storm at sea. 

* * *

He woke on most mornings to rain pattering against the roof of his modest prefab dwelling. There was no mention of a rainy season in the mission background on Roon, but the environmental data had certainly changed in the last ten years. It turned most of Obi-Wan’s work to mud, but he was at least finding ways to deal with it. 

The Ministry of Transportation had long debated the merits of shuttling supplies to areas without landing zones. The alternative was a system of short hops, which required frequent transfers of goods from hovercraft to mountaineering pack animals and back. In the last week, Obi-Wan had budged them on the debate at last, in favour of expanding the pre-existing land-bound transport networks. The Republic would send landspeeders as part of the relief, and raw material for medical supplies to treat common injuries among Roon rams. 

_Such is the valued role of a Jedi,_ Qui-Gon would have said—entirely without irony. It wasn’t particularly glorious work, but it was important. 

There were such vast and strange contrasts between their missions. Dire as the situation was on Roon, Obi-Wan was glad for any assignment where he was not needed for his skill as a warrior. (Perhaps especially, after Naboo.) And if the locals did sometimes seem to think that Jedi were capable of impossible things, at least they did not regard Obi-Wan with fear. Obi-Wan’s host, a sweet older woman whose partner was one of the mountaineering guides, seemed to view him as an errant child in need of feeding, more than anything. Obi-Wan wished he knew how to thank her for it. Nellan simply wouldn’t hear of it, of course. 

* * *

There was nothing that could qualify as a finished task, on Roon. Not really. The pace of Roonan life was slow, defined by the rocky landscape and muddy slog. But this little world on the far reaches of the Mid Rim bred patience and tenacity. Its people clung to sheer cliffs by their fingertips, grimly aware that letting go meant falling into oblivion. 

There was something curiously uplifting about it all. At least Obi-Wan knew that his efforts here would not be abandoned after he was recalled. 

Before he left on his trek out to the spaceport, his hosts sat him down for a farewell meal. Afterwards, there was the traditional parting: some food for the journey, and a gift from the host. 

“I’ve never left Roon,” Nellan said, “but my grandson often writes to me and tells me space travel is very cold.”

Obi-Wan glanced down at the bundle she pressed into his hands, soft as clouds. 

“Ram’s wool,” Nellan told him with a smile. “A lovely throw for your home or a travel blanket. You’ve seen our beasts, they repel any kind of dirt and weather. Even like this, the wool does the same.”

A part of Obi-Wan wanted to answer by rote— _a Jedi does not accept gifts._ He knew how long this creation must have taken. But the soft wool under his fingers made him think of home, and of Qui-Gon. 

And quite apart from that there was something terribly rude about turning down gifts from those who had little to begin with. This wasn’t a bribe, but a kindness. 

Obi-Wan bowed as he would to an elder, a Jedi Master. Nellan blushed and hid a small giggle behind her hand. “Don’t be so formal,” she chided, “you’ve been a great help to me while you stayed here. Go safely, Master Jedi.” 

* * *

From Roon to Vanon, from Vanon to Turse, the jumps all blurred into each other. On Vanon, Obi-Wan stepped into hot, wet, briny sea air. Turse was cold, with a knife-wind that seemed to cut through everything. Obi-Wan had apparently arrived during High Summer, and did not see a single sunset while he was there. At best the watery daylight dimmed for two hours in a planetary rotation. 

And then there was Ord Varree and Nar Kita and Kheff. Alderaan was a bright moment in the mix, but brief. Then it was another string of planets Obi-Wan barely remembered, another set of missions that threw him from sector to sector. It was only on Celanon that he was finally recalled to the Temple, and not a moment too soon. 

Obi-Wan felt a bit wild by then. The last few months had left him looking decidedly rough. He’d given up on doing anything more than keeping the beard trim after a month on a cold desert world. That was just as well, since lately all his negotiations were with pirates and at blasterpoint: the beard worked in his favour. 

It also, surprisingly, worked in his favour at the Temple, allowing him to move through the halls unrecognised and largely unnoticed. He was just another tired Knight returning from a mission. 

Though, as Obi-Wan eyed the lift that would have taken him to the Knights’ quarters, he discovered that it didn’t feel much like a return. Something very important was missing. The thought of sparsely furnished quarters, with still air and a mostly empty kitchen—not even a tea kettle—filled him with a kind of dull melancholy. 

Obi-Wan had thought that over the last few months he’d learned to be alone, but the ache was almost unbearable now that he was back in the Temple. It was home. He was surrounded by Jedi, by a familiar peace in the Force. It wasn’t enough. 

His pack slid down from his shoulder and landed in the crook of his elbow. It looked bulkier than it felt, but the shape was still somewhat unwieldy. Obi-Wan sighed and pulled it back up, fingers closing on something soft and springy. 

Rams’ wool. Obi-Wan had stowed it in a watertight cover, kept it in his pack. He’d thought of Qui-Gon, when Nellan handed it to him: thought of his Master, cold and hunched around a cup of tea. Thought of Qui-Gon pulling him close and wrapping a long arm around him, relaxing as Obi-Wan curled against him. 

Without conscious thought, Obi-Wan turned around and directed his steps along a familiar, oft-trodden path. 

* * *

The thing Obi-Wan had never been quite able to explain, to himself or to anyone else, was that from the first moment he’d seen Qui-Gon, he’d wanted to follow the Jedi Master wherever he went. It was irrational; it didn’t make sense to him then, but Obi-Wan had trusted his instincts. It didn’t make sense to him now, but he had often watched the gaggle of Initiates crowding around his very tall Master, enraptured rather than intimidated, upturned faces shining with glee. 

Maybe they felt it, too. 

There was a profound rightness in this: standing in front of his Master as Qui-Gon opened the familiar door to him. 

“Your code is still in the memory bank, you know,” Qui-Gon told him, but his expression was amused and quietly joyful. “But I am glad to see you at my door.” 

Obi-Wan grinned back at him helplessly. “Master—Qui-Gon. It's good to see you,” he managed. 

Qui-Gon looked well. Leaner and sharper than Obi-Wan remembered, but the dark spots under his eyes were gone and the hollowed cheeks had filled out. Perhaps the crows feet had gotten deeper, perhaps there was more silver in Qui-Gon’s hair, but he was still as beautiful. 

And Qui-Gon’s presence in the Force enveloped Obi-Wan as he let himself be drawn into the familiar rooms. 

“I have a gift for you,” Obi-Wan said, prying off his boots. 

“For me?” Qui-Gon's smile grew, somehow, turned into something fond and soft. “The only gift I need is seeing you before me—alive and well, Knight Kenobi.” 

Obi-Wan felt his face heat, and ducked his head. That reaction, at least, he could mask as he pulled the water-tight package free of his kit. 

“It was given to me by the host family on my first mission. It made me think of you.”

The look of soft wonder on Qui-Gon’s face was worth… everything. Half a Galactic Standard year out in the wilds of Republic space, half a year spent alone and unmoored—suddenly it didn’t ache so acutely. 

“Thank you, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon breathed. 

And when he looked up, woollen blanket held unconsciously close to his chest, Qui-Gon graced Obi-Wan with a strangely tremulous smile. “Stay with me awhile,” Qui-Gon said. “Take a hot shower. I’ll find us something to eat.” 

* * *

Late into the night, Obi-Wan sat shoulder to shoulder with his former Master, sharing tea and the warmth of the soft thick wool. 

Obi-Wan’s exhaustion had fairly bled away at the sight of Qui-Gon, at the feel of him in the Force. But now that Obi-Wan was comfortable, well fed and treated to the tea blend he’d dreamed of for half a year, he could feel the moment slipping out of his grasp. He couldn’t bear to miss a minute of his Master’s company, but it was a losing battle. 

The rumble under his ear informed him that, alas, his struggle had not gone unremarked. 

“Rest, my Obi-Wan,” he heard, as if from a great distance. One of Qui-Gon’s hands came up to cradle the back of his head, and lips pressed against his forehead. “I promise, I will be here when you wake.” 

Obi-Wan made a noise in the negative, though his eyelids slid closed despite his every effort. His reward was another fond chuckle. 

“You’ve looked after me when I needed it.” This time Qui-Gon’s voice was much closer, quiet and even and reassuring, right in Obi-Wan’s ear. “Let me look after you, now.”

With a sigh, Obi-Wan let himself melt against Qui-Gon’s frame. “You still feel tired, Qui-Gon,” he said—or tried to, but the words trailed away on a sigh. 

“You can take over, after you’ve slept,” Qui-Gon whispered, and pressed another, longer kiss to his forehead. 

Perhaps, Obi-Wan thought, Qui-Gon had wanted to do this for a very long time. That was a new and interesting shift in perspective, and Obi-Wan hoped he would have time to explore it—after he’d slept. 

**Author's Note:**

> ^.^


End file.
